the wedding?’
Ana swallowed. ‘In two weeks.’
Enrico raised his eyebrows. ‘Good,’ he said after a moment. ‘No need to waste time. I will telephone Aunt Iris today. Perhaps she can come from England.’
Ana nodded jerkily. She’d only met her aunt a handful of times; she’d disapproved of her sister marrying an Italian and living so far away. When Emily had died, she’d withdrawn even more. ‘I hope she’ll come,’ Ana said, meaning it. Perhaps her wedding could go some way towards healing such family rifts.
Even when at work in the winery on Monday she found her thoughts were too hopelessly scattered to concentrate on much of anything. She jumped at the littlest sound, half-expecting, hoping even, to see Vittorio again. He did not make an appearance.
In the middle of a task or phone call she would catch herself staring into space, her mind leaping ahead…I’ll be the Countess of Cazlevara. What will people say? When will Vittorio want to—?
She forced her mind back to her work, even as a lump of something—half dread, half excitement—lodged in her middle and made it impossible to eat or even to swallow more than a sip of water. She was a seething mass of nerves, wondering just what insane foolishness she’d agreed to, longing to possess the cool business sense Vittorio had credited her with. She couldn’t summon it for the life of her.
On Thursday evening, as she headed back to the villa, she compiled a list in her head of all the things she needed to do. Tell the winery staff. Ring Paola. Find an outfit—a dress?—for her dinner with Vittorio and his family tomorrow.
The downstairs of the villa was quiet and dark when Ana entered.
‘Papà?’ she called, and there was no answer. She headed upstairs, pausing in the doorway of one of the guest bedrooms they never used. Her father, she saw, was seated on the floor, his head bowed. Ana felt a lurch of alarm. ‘Papa?’ she asked gently. ‘Are you all right?’
He looked up, blinking once or twice, and smiled brightly. ‘Yes. Fine. I was just looking through some old things.’
Ana stepped into the room, now lost in the gloom of late afternoon. ‘What old things?’ she asked.
‘Of your mother’s…’ The words trailed off in a sigh. Enrico looked down at his lap, which was covered by a heap of crumpled white satin. ‘She would be so pleased to know you were getting married. I like to think that she does know, somehow. Somewhere.’
‘Yes.’ Ana couldn’t help but remember Vittorio’s words: tua cuore. ‘What’s that on your lap?’
‘Your mother’s wedding dress. Have I never shown it to you?’
Ana shook her head. ‘In photographs…’
Enrico held it up, shaking it out as he smiled tremulously. ‘I know it’s probably out-of-date,’ he began, his voice hesitant. ‘And it needs to be professionally cleaned and most likely altered, but…’
‘But?’ Ana prompted. She felt moved by her father’s obvious emotion—unusual as it was—but it saddened her too. This enduring love was something she’d agreed never to know.
‘It would give this old man great joy for you to wear your mother’s gown on your wedding day,’ Enrico said, and Ana’s heart sank a little bit.
‘You’re not an old man, Papà,’ she protested, even as she scanned his face, noticing how thin and white his hair was, the new deeper grooves on the sides of his mouth. He’d been forty when he’d married; he was just past seventy now. It seemed impossible, and her heart lurched as she reached for the gown. ‘Let me see.’ She shook the dress out, admiring the rich white satin even as she recognized the style—over thirty years old—was far from flattering for her own fuller figure. The round neckline was bedecked with heavy lace and the skirt had three tiers of ruffles. Not only would she look like a meringue in it, she would look like a very large meringue. She’d look awful. Ana turned back to her father; tears shimmered in his eyes. She smiled. ‘I’d be honoured to wear it, Papà.’
The next day Ana stood outside Castle Cazlevara. The torches guttered in a chilly spring breeze and lights twinkled from within. Even before she stepped out of her car—she’d insisted on driving herself—a liveried footman threw open the double doors and welcomed her inside.
‘Signorina Viale, welcome. The Count and his mother, the Countess, are in the drawing room awaiting your arrival.’
Ana swallowed past the dryness in her mouth; her heart had begun to thump so loudly she could feel it